Tatoos and Scars
by Isis1
Summary: Boondock Saints fic. The boys take pride in their tatoos, but they never thought about the meaning of scars. Doc enlightens them to the differences between tatoos and scars.


They watched the youthful looking girl walk into McGinty's, and they   
  
took a second look at her. She was much to young for the twenty-one that   
  
allowed a person to step foot in a bar. Murphy and Connor MacManus turned   
  
back to their Porter beer and lost themselves in its dark pools. Too much   
  
had happened over the past three and a half years. Yet, there was not enough   
  
alcohol to drown their sorrow, now.   
  
It happened so quickly, that neither of them had time react with rage,   
  
or vengeance. The boys simply bewailed, firing off off as many rounds as they   
  
could. But, Murphy was the one who acted with such ignorant passion that he   
  
rushed after the remaining foes. Connor pulled, tore, and ripped at his brother   
  
with all his strength; at long last they were gone from the hotel.   
  
What else were they to do, but go to McGinty's and drink until they   
  
could not drink anymore. Doc McGinty had been the first Irishman they had   
  
met when they came to Boston; he was their last. The boys knew little about   
  
the Doc, save that he had been a certified medical doctor once upon a time.   
  
They did not ask him of his past; he did not ask them of theirs. It was an   
  
unspoken agreement.   
  
The girl was abnormal in stature for a woman: she was only five   
  
feet and a couple of inches. Her over-sized leather duster did not give   
  
any lead way for the imagination of men. Yet, she glided up to the bar,   
  
glancing at the to boys to her left. She failed to notice that Doc stood   
  
patiently in front of her, awaiting her order. It was not out of rudeness,   
  
it was out of surprise. The girl did not expect to see anyone drinking at   
  
this time of night, except for herself of course.   
  
Connor peered at the girl, as she leisurely took off her gloves.   
  
He thought she was rather a sight. Her hair was terribly unkempt, looking   
  
as if she had not slept in days. He could tell that she had plenty of meat   
  
on her bones, shaking his head at the memory that he once thought that skinny   
  
was beautiful. Yet, the young girl was thin, appearing very healthy. Her   
  
eyes told a different story than her un-wrinkled skin: her dark green eyes   
  
were ancient.   
  
Murphy gazed at the girl, as she lit a cigarette, then pulled an   
  
ashtray toward her. He surmised that she was quite a vision. Her clothes   
  
she wore were faded, but not dirty. She smelled of Irish Spring soap; he   
  
grinned to know that they used the same thing. Her boots were scuffed, he   
  
noticed, and they did nothing to aide her in giving any height. Murphy took   
  
to her messy hair, because it looked as untamable as his. He loathed his hair.   
  
Then, he noticed her eyes, and he was in awe at the swirling colours their: she   
  
had seen a lot of sorrow.   
  
"How old are ye, youngen'?" Doc asked, breaking a shadowed silence.   
  
The girl smiled and ran a small wristed hand through her dishwater   
  
blonde hair. It only served to tangle her hair even more. She scratched   
  
her head and grinned. Then, she slowly stuck out her hand to Doc. It   
  
surprised all three of the men there.   
  
"Mairead Milligan,"   
  
The sound of her voice was so opposite of theirs: it was thickened   
  
with a hillbilly accent. It was not unpleasent to the ear, just simply new   
  
to their own. They were all used to voices clipped with the remnants of the   
  
immigrants that had made the city what it is today. Doc hesitantly took her   
  
hand and shook it. He marveled at her firm grip, along with calloused hands.   
  
As she shrugged off her coat, they all took notice of her tatoos.   
  
"Doc McGinty,"  
  
"Glass of Whiskey, straight-up," Mairead announced.   
  
The elder man raised and eyebrow, pushing his glasses up his nose.   
  
He placed both of his hands of the counter, and glanced in Connor and Murphy's   
  
direction. They gave him a questioning look. It was well noticeable that the   
  
girl was cold. Snow had been dripping off of her coat and gloves, but they did   
  
not expect her to ask for hard liquour.   
  
"Don't look so surprised, old man, I'm older than you think,"   
  
She turned an approving eye to both Connor and Murphy. Doc   
  
obliged the girl and brought a glass made usually for beer, and filled   
  
it up with ninety-proof Wild Irish Rose. Both of the brothers were   
  
uncomfortable under the hollow eyed gaze of the woman. But, she was not   
  
looking at them, not exactly. She was eyeing their tatoos. They clearly   
  
had more than her. It was her right, they supposed, they had blatantly   
  
gazed upon her arms at the tatoos she had there.   
  
"Since you didn't ask, I'll show you my tatoos," she stated, as if saying   
  
it was beginning to rain.   
  
Mairead stood on two numb legs, setting her left arm up on the   
  
counter. They edged closer to her arm, admiring the body art. Some were   
  
faded, and some looked only a couple of years old. Connor ran his right   
  
index finger over a smaller faded one; Murphy gently poked a larger one.   
  
"The rose you're strokin', boy," she addressed Connor, and Murphy ceased all   
  
movement, "I got in Memphis in the back of an alley dump. And, the Eagle   
  
you were poking, picked up in Dallas, I was good and drunk,"   
  
The girl changed positions and sat her right arm up on the table.   
  
The tattoo on her right arm coverd less than half of skin darkened by the   
  
sun. Doc took interest in this one particularly, partly because of the   
  
detail, and partly because he recognized it. He had not seen this in many,   
  
many years.   
  
"Thought you said your name Milligan," interjected Doc.   
  
"It is," the girl looked surprised at the Doc's knowledge, "my Daddy took   
  
the name of his step-father, I always preferred our true surname."   
  
"Your coat of arms?" asked Murphy.  
  
Mairead nodded, and turned her arm over. A Celtic cross spread   
  
its way from her wrest to the crevace of her elbow. Connor enjoyed this   
  
one: it mirrored his and his Brother's almost exactly. She drew her arm   
  
from the counter and took her seat, followed by sipping on the glass of   
  
Wild Irish Rose.   
  
"I always preferred our Irish heritage over our southeren one, too,"   
  
She gave a half-grin to the barman. Murphy was first. He   
  
walked around to her other side, showing her both of his arms. He   
  
took up a new residence on her right. Connor was next, and he mirrored   
  
his brother's actions. She gazed at Murphy longer than his Brother. He   
  
had a look of someone hiding something.   
  
"You've got more, don't ya, boy?" Mairead inquired, raising her left eyebrow.   
  
It did not peeve the MacManus boys when she referred to them as   
  
'boys.' It only served to show that she had indeed seen some things that   
  
she probably should not have. Murphy, casually took off his shirt and layed   
  
it upon his chair. He turned around, finding that her hands were not cold,   
  
but warm as she stroked his tatoos. She looked at them, critiquing them in   
  
her mind; the work was good, nice in detail.   
  
When her hands had left his back, he swiftly pulled his shirt back   
  
on. He sat down again, and drank more of his beer. Connor had watched the   
  
girl, curiously, and cautiously. He had a thought that she might know of   
  
what they had done. But, as he watched how her hands had moved softly   
  
against his Brother's back, he knew that she did not have a clue.   
  
"Hold old were you?" Connor broke into to quiet lamentations.   
  
"Mmm," she searched out loud, "thirteen - the rose."   
  
"It's looks marred," added Doc.   
  
"Got infected. Should've seen the guy after I found him,"   
  
Mairead chuckled, heartily, and the boys followed her. She was   
  
amusing, that was for sure. And, maybe if they had not been so heavily   
  
loaded with alcohol, they would not have shown her their tatoos. As for   
  
that moment though, they threw caution into wind. Anyways, Connor had told   
  
himself, it's just them at the pub, nothing could happen.   
  
Doc poured some coffee for Mairead, and lit a cigarette. He   
  
rolled up his sleep on his left arm and set it on the table. In all   
  
the years that the boys had known Doc, they never thought that he had   
  
tatoos. And, Doc did not have tatoos on his arms, he had scars. They   
  
had faded into a dull white, but they could see them all the same.   
  
"Take a good look, girl. These are just my ragged and jagged scars. I   
  
got this one," he pointed to larger scar, "in Paris in a war before all   
  
three of you were bourn. And, the other one I got when I was half your   
  
age, working on my Daddy's farm. The way I see it, girl, you haven't   
  
seen what I have, because tatoos and scars are very different things."   
  
The three youths were entranced by what the elder was saying.   
  
All of them adored hearing stories of the old, and the look in Doc's face   
  
told that he could spend many days just talking about the old ones. So,   
  
they watched as he drank his coffee, waiting for him to continue.   
  
"I've been in Amerikay for long, long years, and if I learned anything,   
  
it's this: if you look and listen long enough, a man will show you what   
  
he is, the way I see it you've been 'round, but you're still green, ya'll   
  
just remember tatoos and scars are two very different things,"   
  
The girl reached in her pocket to get out some money, but Doc shook   
  
his head. He uttered three words once for the rest of that night. He,   
  
smiling at each in turn, gave them all a glass of whiskey. Mairead was   
  
astounded, completely. She had never seen a barman give liquour freely.   
  
The Doc reminded her of her Daddy. So, she smiled back when he   
  
did, wishing he would tell some more of his tales. But, Doc only rolled   
  
his sleeve back down, and sat in a chair behind the counter. He only   
  
moved to fill their glasses when they were empty. She opened her mouth   
  
to speak, about to ask if she could pay her bill - Doc silenced her.   
  
The three words he lastly uttered that night were . . .   
  
"It's on me,"   
  
Mairead nodded her head, and knew that she had been beat. The   
  
three took to one another in a drunken stupour. They carried on with   
  
stories of their childhood, and found they much admired their Fathers   
  
very much. In ode to Doc, they compared scars later on in the evening.   
  
Murphy and Connor showed bullet wounds and flesh where the bone had broken   
  
through; Mairead in turned showed scars of accidents with machinery on her   
  
Daddy's farm, and also broken bones that had penetrated flesh.   
  
As the three youths stepped out of the dimmly lit bar, they stood   
  
in a circle-like manner. They shoved their hands into their jacket pockets,   
  
trying to savour the warmth and mirth from McGinty's. Staring at one another's   
  
feet, Mairead broke the deafening silence.   
  
"The way I see it," she gazed upon their faces, "if if gets any worse   
  
out here,people like us and the Old Man, haven't got a chance.   
  
Mairead Milligan walked away, lighting a cigarette, thankful   
  
that it brought some warmth to her frigid body. All three youths came   
  
to the conclusion, though, as Mairead walked away from the Brothers and   
  
McGinty's: tatoos and scars are, two very different things.   
  
AN: Some of the dialogue and action comes from a lovely, enlightening   
  
song I so dearly love; Tatoos and Scars by Montgomery Gentry. 


End file.
